Walking through the harbor, I clutch my hands
midair and circle
around those flying beetles. Their blue
of blood, purpled under the light’s rust.
A friend I just met says,
You don’t have to say sorry all the time —
His hands blur the 8A.M. mist apart. I mean, okay,
listen — everything is fine, you know?
Once, I wrote an anecdote about a full stop,
a colon and a comma. In a house built by sentences
that lies on a dawn-blue sea,
the story starts with the full stop breaking
the window-panes apart. The colon tries to explain
to the comma but the comma
doesn’t want to listen. The comma replies, Sorry, I don't want —
I don’t know anymore. I just don’t know anymore.
I guess I failed my own language then.
A part of me was parching into something
I didn’t even recognize. When somebody said,
I want to be catastrophic —
I think I understand whoever they are, really. The air continues
beating against sea-water and leaving its
teeth-marks. A crow wings
then lands on a fast-food restaurant’s roof
right next to us. Looking at the animal,
I suddenly want to walk towards
the restaurant. Its thick grease of over-fried chips
and burgers with too many sesame seeds.
Those seeds that look like eyes, ready
to lurch inside one’s stomach and stay forever there.
I suddenly want to stay forever here, too.
I suddenly want to take the crow
into my mouth and feel its rot-black feathers
prickling my arms. My June-cold skin
against its beak.
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